


If

by yeaka



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: F/F, F/M, Unrequited Love, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 13:06:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2069364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Julia has a bad habit of wanting things she can’t have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Murdoch Mysteries or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

She comes to work pristine as usual, all her money showing up: her perfect hair, her perfect teeth. Her makeup is better than Julia’s has ever been, but it’s never jealousy Julia feels—just _pride_. This world is a cruel place for women like them, that aren’t supposed to be both _pretty_ and _smart_ , but Emily is everything she could be. She’s young, too. She’s fearless. Julia helps tie her apron around the back, knotting the bow loose—the corset below is tight enough. Even breathing’s a struggle in this world.

Emily walks, straight-backed, like she’s never felt weight in her life. The look on her face is entirely too cheerful for someone reaching a dead body. This one was just brought in. Julia’s already made the marks across his chest but hasn’t cut him open. 

Emily plucks a scalpel off the table, the blade glinting in the clinical lights, and Emily calls without looking, “Can we play some music?” There’s a pleasant lilt to her voice and a note of respect that’s always laced in every time she talks to Julia. 

Julia mumbles a slightly flustered, “Yes, of course,” because she always seems to be half a second late. But the breathlessness seems to be her usual state of affairs. She turns back up the steps and heads for the phonograph, poised and waiting for her touch. It sets into classical genius easily, loud enough to carry throughout the morgue. 

Julia sweeps back to Emily, pausing at the stairs for no particular reason. Emily’s head is nodding slightly to the music, a professional way of swaying with the rhythm. Her hands must remain steady. She’s slicing through flesh like paper and smiling serenely, and Julia can’t but wonder if she ever looked that graceful. 

Then she wonders, worse, if this is how William sees her. She’s caught him staring enough. But even if Emily catches her, Emily would never suspect—it isn’t how things work. How society is. Maybe in Europe... 

Julia draws out a shaky breath and heads down the stairs. It doesn’t do to dwell on it. Even for two modern women like themselves, it isn’t an option. She has William, anyway, in a manner of speaking. And of course, sometimes she does wonder, why couldn’t she have _both_ —why couldn’t interest and attraction and _love_ extend to more than one person—she’s so very sick of being bound by everything _society_ thinks, but even if she could convince Emily (which maybe she could, if Emily were willing, if half the furtive glances and sneaking looks Julia’s caught mean half of what she wants them to) she’d _never_ convince William, and they’ve worked too hard through too much as it is.

Emily sets the bloodied scalpel aside and starts to peel back dead skin. Julia’s eyes are naturally drawn to the skill in those hands, though they’re beyond supervision; Emily already has Julia’s approval in every way. When the man’s heart is exposed, Julia stares at it the same way she stared at Emily, the same way she’s stared at William. The human heart looks so harmless when it’s dead. It doesn’t seem capable of all the destruction and chaos that it is. 

Though the cause is obvious—a compact bullet in the back of the head—Emily sighs, “I suppose Detective Murdoch will want the stomach contents examined.” Julia smiles but doesn’t answer; of course he does, he always does. Emily starts to pry her way through the mass of flesh and organs, getting blood all up her arms and her apron and still never quite as _ugly_ as this moment should merit, and she asks off-handedly, “Do you suppose we’ll have time for a quick cup of coffee later?”

Examining stomachs can make Julia hungry too. It’s an oddity they share. She says more quietly than she means to, “I’d like that.”

She’d like to sit with Emily in a little café, and they will, but she’d like to do it _properly_ , with one hand over Emily’s delicate fingers. She’d like to tuck the stray chocolate strands behind Emily’s ear and press her forehead against Emily’s and bury her face in Emily’s neck and memorize the scent of Emily’s perfume. She wants to discuss the case, and the one before, and what dinner they’re serving at the French restaurant across the street and how differently they could dress before winding up in one of the Inspector’s cells. Emily would look good in pants, with short hair, in a full suit even, all the things they’re not supposed to, and she wants to discuss what’s wrong with those rules and the lunacy of it. She wants to share experiences with someone who can understand. She wants to explore more with someone she can trust. She wants to tell Emily that she’s struggled with sexual frustration around the work place with William for _years_ and it’s happening all over again. 

She wants to talk about these things with Emily until the sun’s long past set, and she wants to feel Emily’s smooth, cream skin, all her perfect curves bound beneath her designer dress. Julia wants to help Emily get dressed in the morning, apply her charcoal and rouge, and swap hats. 

Instead, she wheels the little metal table over for Emily to put the severed stomach on. Emily puts her hand on the cart’s handle to wheel it away, but Julia’s haven’t moved yet. Emily’s palm is warm against Julia’s knuckles, and she always notices that more in the morgue. 

Emily looks sideways at her. A fraction shorter, Emily has to look up through her lashes. Subconsciously, Julia knows she needs to move her hand, but she doesn’t. The music peaks.

For a moment, she thinks Emily’s going to kiss her. But Julia’s always had a problem with living in fantasies. 

Emily pushes the cart away.

Julia follows and wishes they were in a time where things could be different.


End file.
